


Assuagement

by nerdqueenenterprise



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paul is feeling kinda down but Hugh to the rescue, Pet Names, Sleepy Cuddles, just so many pet names, spoilers for ep 04: the butcher's knife cares not for the lamb's cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 02:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12596112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdqueenenterprise/pseuds/nerdqueenenterprise
Summary: Set in the middle of ep 04. Corvant II was saved due to Paul figuring out the spore drive, but people still died. Paul has a hard time coming to terms with that. Hugh talks him through it.





	Assuagement

**Author's Note:**

> i know ep 04 didn't really have two days in it, but i'm just going to pretend it did.

Paul can’t sleep. It’s nothing out of the ordinary - his vocation as an astromycologist has him almost always thinking, especially now that he finally has the technologies he needs at his fingertips.

But it’s not science that’s keeping him up tonight. He can feel the breakthrough with the spore drive tingling at his fingertips, but it tastes repulsive. Not just because it’s not quite right, but because it was too late. How many more people would’ve survived if he had been quicker? Or better?

He had voiced the same thoughts to Hugh earlier. And Hugh had understood. Of course he had - he has to deal with people dying on a daily basis. Not literally - the  _ Discovery  _ has had little to no casualties - but figuratively, it’s his job to deal with that. And he’s good at it. He’s a great doctor.

Paul? Not so much. One, he isn’t a doctor, but he’s also generally not good with people. He hates when they have to depend on him. And now they do. Now, his drive isn’t a research project anymore but instead a secret weapon in a war nobody of them ever wanted a part in. Best case scenario, he doesn’t make it work and the ship blows up. Worst case scenario, they fail the entire fleet and hundreds, thousands of lives are lost, all because Paul failed. 

And how many more people would’ve survived if he had been faster, better, smarter?

He hates the insecurity that comes with this question. He knows he’s brilliant, his IQ is probably higher than the ship’s average; he knows he uncovered a concept, built a technology that was completely unheard of, that is so complex most people can only grasp the general idea of what they’re working on, and if it weren’t for the war, he knows he could take the spore drive and the entire accompanying science to heights that would revolutionize all sciences.

But it’s not ready, and today that meant that lives were lost, people dying in screaming agony. Broadcasting the last distress call from Corvant II had been a perfidious move of Captain Lorca. Nothing moves the human heart quite like hearing others in distress and having them beg for help.

There were children. 

Paul presses his face between Hugh’s shoulder blades and tries to forget the images behind his eyes. 

Children. Who knows how many bright young lives were lost today because Paul wasn’t - wasn’t good enough. Or quick enough or smart enough or whatever. They’re dead, and they had so much to live for.

He can hear Hugh’s heartbeat, slow and steady and alive. Without the war, they would probably never have met and Paul’s life would feel so much cheaper in comparison, but he aches for the war to just … just go, evaporate, the Klingons suddenly turning away or beginning peace talks. 

Every now and then there are news from other ships getting blown up or wrecked, and Paul is perversely happy every time that it wasn’t them. He doesn’t really know how he’d react to disaster striking them, half their ship wrecked, injuries and casualties all around. That’s right where Hugh’d be, at the weakest point in the whole vessel, and then the Klingons would fire another salvo.

Paul holds him tighter. 

After the war, there’d be a shiny plaque for Dr Hugh Wilson Culber, M. D., assigned  _ USS Discovery _ , killed in action in 2255, another piece adorning the wall of officers KIA, and they’d read his name at a mourning ceremony and he’d be gone.

It’s in the nature of humans to forget. Time heals all wounds and some nonsense, and years later Paul would barely remember what Hugh’s laugh sounds like, what he smells like, the way he’d cup Paul’s cheek and tell him off for being a reckless idiot.

Hugh’s heart is beating steadily under Paul’s fingers and he smells warm and sleepy and he’s here and he’s alive but Paul has never missed him more than he does right now.

Hugh sighs and moves to wrap his fingers around Paul’s right wrist.

    “You’re thinking too much. Try sleeping instead of breaking my ribs by squeezing,” he says sleepily.

    “Sorry,” Paul answers muffledly into his back, letting go of Hugh a little. 

Hugh rubs his thumb over the back of Paul’s hand. “You did everything you could. Don’t beat yourself up over not being god.”

    “Is that how you manage to sleep every time?” It comes out a bit more bitter than Paul intended.

     “Well … there’s nothing that really helps with that kind of guilt. But … be a little more kind to yourself. It’s not your fault.”

The darkness makes it easier to let himself say what he needs to say. “One day it’s going to be  _ Discovery. _ One day it’s going to be you. And you’ll be right where the - the fighting is, and then - you won’t come back that night.” Paul breathes a moist breath against Hugh’s back, throat hurting with the thought.

Hugh squeezes his hand. “I know. Or, if they hit the another part of the ship, either because they know about the spore drive or because they want to disable the warp drive, you’ll turn up in medbay, or you won’t come home that night.”

Paul chokes a not-quite-sob against Hugh’s shirt.

    “I don’t like the ’what if’s either, love. I don’t - I don’t like this war. I don’t like that the captain seems to want to end it with  _ Discovery  _ and your drive alone. And I wish I could do something, but …”

    “I don’t like Lorca,” Paul blurts out, the captain’s look when he told him he wasn’t a soldier still burning into him, and the subsequent broadcast of the distress call constricting around him.

    “It was a great move, psychologically, but devastating, and more than just inappropriate. Paul, I’m so sorry, I wish he hadn’t, I wish there had been more time, but baby, you did everything you could. You’re human, Paul. And without you, nobody would’ve been saved. Without you, Starfleet wouldn’t even have given them the time of day, wouldn’t even have considered helping them, probably. You saved, what, fifteen people? Twenty? They’ll never know it, but you’re their hero.” Hugh turns around in Paul’s arms. 

Paul moves to hide his face in Hugh’s chest, but his love isn’t having any of it, gently nudging Paul’s face so he can see him. 

    “Paul. You saved them. You can’t save everyone in this war, but you saved them today, and you’ll save more people in the future.”

Paul tries to twist his face away, something heavy burning in his throat.

    “It wasn’t me, it was the spore drive. And … the ship and the crew and -“

    “And who invented the spore drive? You. Don’t stop taking pride in your work just because … just because people died. They do that. It’s a war. And you’re brilliant, Paul, and you saved these people.”

    “I know I’m brilliant.”

    “Then act like it.” Hugh pulls him closer again and nuzzles his face into Paul’s hair. “I love you a lot, sweet one.”

    “Don’t call me that.”

    “Sugarplum.”

    “Don’t call me that, either.”

    “Babycheeks.”

    “My cheeks aren’t chubby.”

    “Honey bunny.”

    “No!”

    “Blondie doll.”

    “Oh my god, Hugh.”

    “Cuddle muffin.”

    “Will you  _ stop _ !”

    “Bomboncito.”

    “I don’t know what that means.”

    “Mi cielito, corazonito, mi alma.”

    “I don’t know what you’re saying.” Paul tries to keep his voice flat and cold, but he’s probably failing spectacularly.

    “Amor de mi vida, Paul, te quiero muchísimo, para siempre.”

Paul’s face is burning and he’s very happy he’s got it buried in Hugh’s chest.

    “I love you too,” he mutters.

    “What was that?” Hugh is obviously delighted.

    “I love you, you idiot,” Paul repeats a little louder.

    “Hey now. That’s not nice.”

    “It’s not nice of you to say all these things that I don’t understand.”

    “I think you do, love.” Hugh kisses his temple. “Think you can sleep now? I’ll hold you.”

Paul curls his fingers into Hugh’s shirt, heart-wrenchingly glad that his love can read minds and he doesn’t have to ask for that.

    “Sorry for waking you,” he says.

Hugh smooths a hand over Paul’s back. “Don’t worry about it. Sleep.”

Paul does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey, thanks for reading! i hope you liked it!  
> i know wilson isn't really hugh's middle name, that was me taking an artistic liberty. also i just decided that he'd know spanish because wilson cruz does have puerto rican roots. the translations are straight from google translate, so please tell me if you spot any errors!


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